


A White Mouse In Pink

by bibliolatry



Series: Adventures in Mouselock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John Mouse-Style, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Mouselock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, mycroft mousenaps john, pills are bad mkay, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mousey remake of SiP</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John made his way across the empty sitting room towards his hole feeling lucky that Mrs. Turner wasn’t in today as he made his way back from his therapist. Less of a chance of being seen, he thinks just as a voice calls out behind him.

“John? John Watson?” he turns and stares at the mouse that’s approaching him. A bit taller than John, chubby, pale blue shirt with a navy tie, glasses, familiar but can’t quite place him. “Mike, Mike Stamford,” the mouse holds out a paw and John pulls on a fake smile as he shakes. “I know, I’ve gotten fat,” Mike chuckles.

John shakes his head, doesn’t reply. He’s not entirely comfortable, wishes he could just make it the rest of the way to his little one-room hole without being bothered by anyone else. There’s a mousetrap near it’s entrance he’s been considering, though it’s best he doesn’t let anyone in on those thoughts.

“Heard you where over in Montague Square getting chased by cats,” Mike chuckles. “What happened?”

“Got caught,” John shrugs with one shoulder, the other where his wound is covered by the bomber jacket the British Royal Militia allowed him to keep upon his discharge. 

“How are you handling things now?” Mike asks.

“Could be better,” John replies, because it’s true. Things could be better; but they could also be worse, he could have not made it back at all. Good thing Murray had been there to help him get away. Damned Persians.

“Staying with Harry?” 

“Hardly,” John scoffs.

“Doesn’t hurt to ask. How about a flat mate?”

“Who’d want me for a flat mate?” John can’t stop the self deprecating chuckle. He’s confused when Mike chuckles along with him. “What?”

“Mate, you’re not the first to say that to me today.”

“Oh? Who was?”

~~

Sherlock is sitting at a small table, a miniature microscope in front of him. He adjusts the settings and looks again, a small mousey smirk crossing his face his face as the evidence proves his theory on who killed Lord Paddington. 

Mike enters the room, followed closely by a light-brown furred mouse with a cane and a bombers jacket; militia issued, wounded in action, discharged; more data needed.

“Montague or Bryanston?” Sherlock asks and the man looks at him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Which was it? Montague or Bryanston?”

“Montague. I’m sorry, how did you…”

“The bomber jacket is a dead give away, obviously. If you’re asking how I was able to narrow it down to either Montague or Bryanston, that was simple as well. In the past month there have been four locations baring the brunt of operations: Montague, Bryanston, Regent’s Park and Randolph Gardens. Of those four places, Montague and Bryanston are headed by the British Royal Militia while Regent’s and Randolph are known strongholds for the American Mouse Association’s Battle Braves. It could be possible for you to have been assigned to one of the latter units; however, being a militia doctor, it’s more likely you were kept with an all British unit. Therefore, Montague or Bryanston.”

“Incredible,” John says and Sherlock turns and stares at him.

“Really?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course. What else could it be? That was absolutely brilliant.”

“That’s not the response I normally get.”

“What is the normal response?”

“Piss off.” John can’t stop the giggle that escapes and Sherlock has to fight to keep a mousey smile from spreading over his face. “How do you feel about the violin?”

“Quite enjoy it sometimes.”

“I play a lot, often when I’m thinking, sometimes just because I’m in the mood. I don’t talk for days at a time, would that bother you? Can you handle it?”

“I’m sorry, why are you asking?”

“Flat mates should know the worst about each other, shouldn’t they?”

“Who said anything about flat mates?”

“I did, just this morning. Told Mike here I was looking for someone to share a flat with, someone I can bounce ideas off of. Skulls not working anymore.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say skull?”

“Mrs. Hudson, my human, will want to meet you, of course. Come along, I’ve still got to meet with Lestrade. I told him it was the brother, but he wanted irrefutable proof. Well, now he’s got it. Let’s go, John.”

John stared after Sherlock as he marched towards the edge of the shelf St. Bart’s makeshift lab was set up on. Sherlock climbs onto the handle of a garden rake and starts to shimmy down to the ground floor. He pauses just before his head disappears below the shelf to look back at John. “Coming?”

This is the first time John Watson follows Sherlock Holmes. It will not be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah, Sherlock, I was just coming to find you,” a gray-furred mouse says as soon as John and Sherlock enter 221 Baker Street.

“It was the brother, here’s your proof,” Sherlock shoves a piece of paper covered in scribbles towards the gray-furred mouse and continues past him. “What did you need me for, Lestrade?”

John nods towards the mouse and follows Sherlock, jumping only slightly when he realizes the mouse is following them. “There’s been another suicide.”

“I’ve told you, they’re not suicides. Where’s the body?” Sherlock stops and turns towards Lestrade and John.

“Greg Lestrade, by the way,” Lestrade holds out a paw for John to shake.

“John Watson.”

“And I’m Sherlock Holmes, we’re all acquainted, the body, Detective Inspector. Where is it?”

“Right, right. This way.” 

They move towards 221A, Mrs. Hudson’s flat and turn off just before actually entering it. There’s a cleaning closet tucked into the corner, not very large; big enough to hold a broom, mop and dust pan. Behind the dust pan is a white mouse with a bright pink overcoat. Her claws are painted a matching shade of pink and there appears to be bright pink lipstick partially removed from her mousey lips. 

“Ah, Anderson,” Sherlock gives a quick, sarcastic looking smile as they pass a rat in a dark blue coat with ‘forensics’ written on the back. Standing next to him is a milk chocolate colored mouse dressed in a woman’s suit jacket. Both look as though they’d rather not be anywhere near Sherlock and John takes an instant dislike to the both of them.

“It’s a crime scene,” the rat sneers. “I don’t want it contaminated.”

“Quite clear,” Sherlock smiles at him. “Will your wife be visiting her sister for long? Or is it her mother this time?”

“Oh don’t pretend you worked that out, someone told you,” the rat rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Your musk told me that.”

“My musk?”

“Hmm? Yes, it’s all over Donovan. Only occurs when your wife is out of town. Surprised Lestrade hasn’t noticed,” Sherlock glances at Lestrade who shrugs. 

“Been a bit focused on these suicides…”

“Murders,” Sherlock bellows. “They are murders. I told you when the first one cropped up, I’ve told you every time since then. This is the fourth body, Lestrade. How many mice have to die before you listen to me?”

“Just take a look, will you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock moves closer to the body, his attention is immediately drawn to the fact that scratched into the floorboards by the woman’s left hand is the word “Rache”. His eyes flick to her fingernails where the index and middle nails are broken and ragged at the ends with the nail polish chipped, in stark comparison to her other nails which are still immaculate. The woman’s index finger rests at the bottom of the ‘e’ as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died. Sherlock makes an instant deduction: left handed.

He looks back to the word carved into the floorboards and an immediate suggestion springs into his mind:  
RACHE  
German (n.) revenge

Instantly he shakes his head in a tiny dismissive movement and the suggestion disappears. He looks at the carved word again and overlays the five letters with a clearer type. Next to the ‘e’ a rapid progression of letters appear and disappear as he tries to complete the word, then the correct letter settles into place to form the word:  
Rachel

He squats down beside the body and runs his gloved hand along the back of her coat, then lifts his hand again to look at his fingers:  
wet

He reaches into her coat pockets and finds a white folding umbrella in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he then inspects his glove again:   
dry

Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, he moves up to the collar of her coat and runs his fingers underneath it before once again looking at his fingers:   
wet

Reaching into his pocket he takes out a small magnifier, clicks it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist ...  
Clean

... then the gold earring attached to her left ear ...  
Clean

and then the gold chain around her neck ...   
Clean

... before moving on to look at the rings on her left ring finger. The wedding ring and engagement ring flag a different message to him:   
dirty

Sherlock blinks as a rapid succession of conclusions appear in front of his eyes:   
married  
unhappily married  
unhappily married 3+ months

Carefully Sherlock works the wedding ring off the mouse’s finger and holds it up to look at the inside of the ring. While the outside of the ring is still showing dirty, the inside registers as clean. As Sherlock lowers the ring and slides it back onto the woman’s finger, he has already reached a conclusion about the ring:   
regularly removed

Lifting his hands away from the woman, he looks down at her and makes his final deduction about her:   
serial adulterer

He smiles slightly in satisfaction.

“Have you got something?” Lestrade asks.

“Not much,” Sherlock sounds so nonchalant that John can’t help but raise a mousey brow.

“She’s German,” Anderson states and Sherlock turns and shoots him a withering look. “’Rache’ is German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something.”

“Anderson, do shut up. The adults are talking now.”

“Well, what have you got, Sherlock?“ Lestrade asks.

“Victim is in the later days of her seventh month. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

Lestrade interrupts here, “suitcase?”

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least three months, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up…”

“Her wedding ring,” Sherlock cuts in, pointing towards the white mouses left finger. “Three months old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside - that means it’s removed regularly. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off. It’s not for work; look at her claws. She doesn’t work with her paws, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“That’s brilliant,” John breathes and Sherlock turns to stare at him. “Sorry.”

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asks.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Sherlock looks to Lestrade.

“Not to me,” John offers.

“Dear God,” Sherlock looks between the two mice. “What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.” He turns back to the body. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can’t have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff. Honestly, there’s a reason I watch the news with Mrs. Hudson every morning, Lestrade. You might want to start doing similar.”

“That’s fantastic,” John says.

“Are you aware that you do that out loud?” Sherlock asks, eyeing John suspiciously.

“Do I?” John asks. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” Sherlock’s voice is lower than normal, he’s still trying to figure out if John is being serious or trying to pull a joke. “It’s… fine.”

“Why d’you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade asks and Sherlock spins in a circle, eyes traveling the room and the hallway just outside.

“Yes, where is it? She must have had an organizer. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing Rachel?”

“No,” Sherlock says sarcastically, “she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?”

Sherlock points towards he lower paws, “back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right paw. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying the night. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t a case,” Lestrade says “There never was any suitcase.”

Sherlock runs from the cleaning closet, shouting as he rushes towards the door of 221C “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase anywhere near her body?”

“Sherlock, there was no case,” Lestrade calls as he and John follow the detective as quickly as they can.

“But they take the poison themselves,” he says as he slows and turns back to the other two mice. “They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn’t miss them. It’s murder, all of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides. They’re killings - serial killings.” Sherlock holds his paws in front of his face, spins quickly and jumps with delight before heading off away from Lestrade and John once more. “We’ve got a serial killer, I love those. Always something to look forward to.”


	3. Chapter 3

John has been left behind, his limp and having to walk with his cane allowing Sherlock to move much faster than him. He turns the corner to the back door that leads out to the garden of 221 Baker and runs directly into a jet black mouse carrying a briefcase and dressed in a black womens dress jacket that nearly matches the shade of her fur.

“Come with me, Mr. Watson.”

“It’s Doctor Watson, actually.”

“Either way,” she looks at him briefly before turning and walking towards the lavatory, “follow me.”

“Don’t really have a choice, do I?” John asks and she lets out a small chuckle as she shakes her head. “Right, didn’t think so.” John follows her to the lavatory and turns to ask her a question as he crosses the threshold. She eyes him, rolls her eyes and turns away, back facing the room he’s just entered.

“Ah, John Watson.”

John turns towards the voice and takes in the reddish-brown mouse standing in front of him leaning against a doll-sized toy umbrella. He’s dressed in what appears to be a rather fancy suit top, complete with a silver pocket watch. John’s not sure whether he should be worried or amused; he sticks with neutral.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“You’re leg must be hurting you, John. Please, sit down.”

It’s then that John notices a small chair located just to the side of a cabinet. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, was all this really necessary?”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet; hence this place. Please, sit.”

“I don’t want to sit.”

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

“Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one,” John says. “I’ve only just met him…”

“And yet you’re solving crimes together and he’s planning to have you move in with him.”

“Who are you?” John asks.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I‘m guessing you‘re friends.”

“You’ve met him. How many friends do you think he has? I’m the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

John glances around the room, looks back towards where the female mouse is standing guard, turns back towards the mouse in front of him. “Well, thank God you’re above all that, then.” Sherlock can be heard calling for John through the back door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. John turns to glance in that direction before turning back to the mysterious mouse in front of him. “Go on, then. What do you want with me?”

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Don’t really see where that concerns you.”

“If you do move in with him, I’d be happy to provide you with plenty to eat on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?”

“Because you can hardly hunt for yourself.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship.”

Sherlock calls out for John again. John turns towards the door, considers for a moment and turns back to the mouse. “No.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested.”

“Could it be you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes?”

“Who says I trust him?”

“You don’t seem to make friends easily.”

“Are we done?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re tremor, Doctor Watson.”

“What about it?”

“Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress; thinks you’re haunted by the war. She’s wrong. Fire her. You’re not haunted by the war, you miss it.”

“Is there a point to all this?”

“Welcome back, it’s time to choose a side.”

John stares at the mouse for a moment before shaking his head and leaving the room. He makes a beeline for the back door and finally finds Sherlock again.

“You called?” he says as soon as he’s come up beside him.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.”

“What’s this about? The case?”

“Her case,” Sherlock says, his eyes trailing down to the pink case he’s dug out from Mrs. Hudson’s skip. “The killer must have made her drop her case in the skip as he lead her to the cleaning closet. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it.”

“And you got all of that because you realized the case would be pink?” John asks, his voice betraying how amazed he is at the thought.

“Well, it had to be pink, obviously.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” John asks himself.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, then rolls his eyes as John shoots him a glare. “Oh, don’t be like that, everybody is.”

“Ok, where does this leave us.”

“Based on the portion of the skip I found the case in, I believe I know where to find our killer. Dinner?”

“I could go for some, yes.”

“Great, I know a quaint little Italian place just down the road.”


	4. Chapter 4

John doesn’t remember ever having laughed so hard in his life. What started off as dinner in a lovely little Italian restaurant (after having met the proprietor, Angelo), led to a chase through the alley behind 221 Baker, Mrs. Turners flat, and Speedy’s as well. The rat they were chasing turned out to have just arrived on a flight from America. After that debacle, in order to avoid a police officer making his rounds of the area, they raced back to 221 and made their way towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock calls out, “Doctor Watson will be joining me in 221B.”

“Says who?” asks John, still trying to catch his breath.

“Doctor Watson,” John turns and stares at Angelo, at the cane he’s holding out to John. “I noticed you had left this when you and Mr. Holmes left the restaurant earlier.”

“Ah, yes,” John says as he takes the cane from Angelo. “Right, well, then. That settles that. Thank you.”

Sherlock chuckles and John can’t help but to laugh along with him. It’s the most fun John has had since he was discharged.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson opens the door to her flat, glares down at Sherlock as she taps her foot. “What have you been up to?”

“What on earth are you talking about, Mrs. Hudson?”

“There are far too many mice in that flat, Mr. What did I tell you when I allowed you to stay.”

Sherlock stared at Mrs. Hudson for a moment before racing to climb the steps to 221B. “I’ll take care of this, Mrs. Hudson. Come along, John.”

~~

“What are you doing?” Sherlock pants as he climbs onto the top step.

“Well,” Lestrade starts as he turns towards Sherlock. He gives John a quick nod of acknowledgement before continuing. “I knew you’d find the case, Sherlock. I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this, then?”

“Drugs bust,” Lestrade shrugs as he looks around at the officers searching the living room area of 221B. Sherlock’s belongings barely cover the entirety of the one room. There’s never been a reason for him to use any of the other rooms, aside from the kitchen which he experiments in. 

“Seriously?” John sounds incredulous. “This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

Sherlock turns and moves closer to John, biting his lip nervously. “John…”

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t fina anything you could call recreational.”

“John,” Sherlock cuts him off, “you probably want to shut up now.”

John turns towards Sherlock. “Yeah, but come on,” he looks into Sherlock’s eyes. “No,”

“What?” Sherlock asks defensively.

“You?”

“Shut up,” he’s sounding angry. He turns back to Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, that’s Anderson,” Lestrade replies.

“Anderson?” Sherlock turns and looks around at the officers invading his home. “What are you doing on a drugs bust?”

“Oh, I volunteered.”

“They all did,” says Lestrade. “They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.

Sergeant Donovan moves into view holding a jar filled with white, round objects. Her face is wrinkled in disgust as she looks between the jar and Sherlock. “Are these mouse eyes?”

“Put those back,” Sherlock yells at her.

“They were under the oven.”

“It’s an experiment.”

“Keep looking, guys,” Lestrade cuts off the argument. He turns towards Sherlock once more. “Or you can help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock notices a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head slightly, just enough to see what’s happening, not enough to alert the others to what he’s caught. “So-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?” he asks as he tries to put everything together.

“It stops being pretend if they find something,” Lestrade informs him.

Sherlock turns and glares at Lestrade for a moment, his attention split in half. “I’m clean.”

“But is your flat?”

“I don’t even smoke.”

“Neither do I,” Lestrade tells him proudly. “We’ve found Rachel.”

“Who is she?” Sherlock gives Lestrade his full attention for a moment.

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?”

“Never mind that,” Anderson butts in. “We’ve found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we just happen to have found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.”

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.” Sherlock turns back to Lestrade. “You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.”

“She’s dead.”

“Excellent,” John stares at Sherlock in shock. “How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be a connection.” He’s momentarily side-tracked by movement in the corner of his eye again. He still can’t place why it seems so important that he notice this movement out of everything that’s going on around him at the moment.

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for two months. She was stillborn.”

“No, that’s… that’s not right. How… Why would she do that? Why?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup, sociopath; I’m seeing it now.” 

Sherlock glares at Anderson as he continues. “She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her claws. She was dying, it took effort, it would have hurt.”

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow,”

“Yeah, but that was ages ago,” Sherlock whines. “Why would she still be upset.” Everyone stops to stare at him and he turns to look at John. He moves closer and lowers his voice. “Not good?”

John glances around at everyone and leans towards Sherlock. “Bit not good, yeah.” Sherlock nods.

As everyone resumes searching Sherlock’s flat, Sherlock finally comes to understand why the movement he keeps catching out of the corner of his eyes is so important. He turns to the hallway once more and sure enough there is a gray-furred mouse standing there. He’s wearing a green cardigan and a dark grey colored cabbie hat. He sends Sherlock a mousey smirk then turns and begins to climb down the stairs.

Sherlock mumbles a few things, John gets caught up trying to figure out where Sherlock’s going with his super-speedy train of thought, and Lestrade is trying to get his officers together to return to New Scotland Garden in 221C. Sherlock manages to slip away from the flat and it’s a few minutes before anyone notices. Lestrade finally sends his men on their way.

“He’s a great mouse,” he tells John before he leaves, “and if we’re lucky, one day he’ll even be a good one.”

John takes a moment to look around the flat, trying to figure out if he’ll keep the spare bed behind the partition in the sitting room or move it to one of the other rooms in the flat. He glances out the window, see’s Sherlock following some strange mouse, and takes off for the stairs as fast as he can move. He’s on all four paws when he barrels past Lestrade. 

“Sherlock,” he calls out. “I think he’s found our killer.”

Lestrade drops to all fours and takes off at a sprint a few paces behind John. John reaches Sherlock and the strange mouse first, hears the mouse taunting Sherlock into playing the game; taking a poisonous pill. John doesn’t think, he just attacks. His teeth tear into the other mouse’s shoulder, ripping through flesh and muscle, digging further and further. The mouse, Hope, as John later learns, puts up no fight. Sherlock puts pressure on the wound, just enough pain to have Hope screaming a name just before the light leaves his eyes.

“Moriarty!”

Lestrade makes it there as John is leading Sherlock away from the body. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “Everything’s fine.”

“You were going to take that damned pill, weren’t you?” John asks.

“Course I wasn’t,” Sherlock denies. “I was just biding my time. Knew you’d show up.”

“No you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock smiles, delighted he’s finally found someone that understands him. “Dinner?”

“Starving.” 

They start back towards a Chinese restaurant further down Baker St. only to come to a stop as a reddish-brown mouse appears in their path.

“Sherlock, that’s him. That’s the mouse I was talking to you about.”

Sherlock stares at the mouse, rolls his eyes. “I know exactly who that is.” 

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”

“Always so aggressive. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.”

“I upset her? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”

John’s frowning at the two mice before him, trying to figure out where this conversation is leading. “Mummy? Wait a moment, who’s Mummy?”

“Mummy, our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.” John continues to stare between the two, now a look of amazement taking over his features. “Putting on a little weight, there, Mycroft?”

“Losing it, actually.”

Sherlock grumbles to himself and walks away.

“So, when-when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?” John asks

“Yes, of course.”

“I mean, it actually is a childish feud?”

“He’s always been so resentful. Good night, Doctor Watson.”

John rushes to catch up to Sherlock. “So: Dim Sum?”

“Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies,” Sherlock says proudly.

“No, you can’t.”

“Almost can. You did get bit, though?”

“Sorry?”

“Montague. There was an actual wound.”

“Oh, yeah. Shoulder.”

“Shoulder! I thought so.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“The left one.”

“Lucky guess.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock manages to sound offended which sends John into a fit of giggles.

“Yes you do.” Sherlock smiles. “What are you so happy about?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says.

“What’s Moriarty?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” Sherlock says, sounding more cheerful than he has all night.

~~

“Interesting, that soldier fellow,” Mycroft says. “He could be the making of my brother - or make him worse than ever. Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active.”

“Who, sir?”

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”


End file.
